


Without Song

by sofancydancy (Lthien)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blood and Injury, Book Spoilers, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Cursed Jaskier, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, False Memories, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapped Jaskier, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sassy Jaskier | Dandelion, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion, Temporary Character Death, Touch-Starved Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, buckle up kiddos this is gonna be a long one, the witcher spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29170308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lthien/pseuds/sofancydancy
Summary: Where: Emhyr begins to get desperate to find Ciri--as well as for a weapon that he believes will change the war in Nilfgaard's favor...the trials. Too, visions have brought him to Jaskier and he decides that the bard is a major part of Nilfgaardian victory, if he survives.Aka: Jaskier is turned into a weapon -- a new age of Witcher, corrupted by Nilfgaard.*This is gonna be a long ride of angst and hurt/comfort. Buckle up!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 102





	1. To Catch a Lark

**Author's Note:**

> This is a complete re-write of my witcher Jaskier story...I just didn't like it and knew that I could do it justice. So, here's the first chapter! Nearly 6k words!! If you've read my previous story, what do you think of this addition? If you haven't you might want to hold off for spoilers...unless you're into that, then: read on! Also: a huge hug to my friend @sponge-rob who betaed this and shamed my English degree. You're seriously the best!

Emhyr stood before a grand stained-glass window, a sphere of brilliant gold tucked safely in his left hand. It was a gift, and one he used well. In it, he could see all his desires full-filled. He could see his destiny play out in the eyes of his enemies. Through it, he could see the one that he most craved, for it was through blood that it found power.

Emhyr’s eyes strayed from this mighty gift, his cold eyes overlooking all that was his birthright. In the courtyard below, a raging inferno bloomed. Within the flames came the dying cries of those who opposed him. Mortal men, mages, their beasts, and servants alike.

He nearly had everything ready. He nearly had _everything_ that destiny claimed he would have. Only…

“Cahir.”

Immediately the general was at his feet, one armored knee to perfection upon the marble floor below them, head bowed. “White Flame.”

Emhyr kept his eyes on the courtyard, leaning nonchalantly against the glass. He sighed, seemingly bored. Cahir froze at the sound, unsure.

“Is this not to your liking, my Lord?”

“It is…perfection, as always.”

“Then?”

Emhyr looked down at him then. The general held much within his eyes, so bright and green, but was made of steel as always. The King reached out and cupped his general’s stiff jaw, the younger man still allowing himself to be pushed and pulled. Whatever the White Flame needed.

“You know what I want. What I _miss_ …” Emhyr’s grip tightened painfully, but the general remained perfect. He stared into those green eyes, watching shadows cast within. The man within his grasp was haunted with more than his own demons. He was duty-bound to catch and destroy all those that haunted Emhyr too.

He wasn’t very good at that as of late.

As if knowing his Lord’s thought, Cahir’s jaw clenched tighter, muscles jumping.

“We shall find her, my Lord.” Cahir did wince then, watching destiny skirt behind near black-brown eyes. His grip was near inhumane.

“You shall.” Destiny promised them all with Emhyr’s whisper. He released him and Cahir straightened immediately, back to his perfect stance with his head bowed. Emhyr went back to gazing out the window for a couple of minutes, knowing his sighs made the general and all his men uneasy. He swirled the golden orb within his hands, gazing and gazing until a pair of bright green eyes met his own. Green eyes that he hadn’t seen in years…a decade.

Pavetta.

He turned from it, his teeth near grinding. For a moment he dared not look back. He could not stray from it long, however. This time it was a softer sight. Another pair of eyes that he had not seen, nor ever really cared to think about over the years. Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz. Or, ex-viscount of Lettenhove now.

Emhyr was shown the bard multiple times of late. For what reason, the sphere damnably would not reveal. What he did know, however, was that if the sphere showed him his face…it was a warning either in his favor, or demise.

Emhyr was not a fool. He knew the ex-viscount for nearly twenty years. He had met him at his betrothal, after all.

“The witcher…” Emhyr murmured under his breath, mostly to himself. He found himself running a fingernail down the gold filling closest to him, the seam that sealed the glass in place.

“Will be brought to his end,” Cahir half growled in reply, somehow bowing lower when his Lord shot him a pacifying look.

“Do you know the bard that follows him? Jaskier?”

Cahir blinked. “No, my Lord.” Emhyr chuckled low, a half-smile upon his lips.

“Not much for music then, general? Jaskier, or Julian Alfred Pankratz brought the witchers much credit and fame—be that fame or infamy. Nonetheless, he is popular all over The Continent for his work both witcher and non.”

Cahir looked stumped, confused as to what his Lord wanted from him. Music? The bard? He asked just this.

“Hmm, I am interested in where life has taken my friend. He humored Princess Cirilla when she was an infant and more likely well into her childhood. Probably to the now late Queen Calanthe’s demise.” Emhyr pushed away from the window, sniffing slightly at the smell of smoldering flesh from his nose. Cahir turned as he did, but remained on his knee, head bowed.

“Come, my friend. Or are you offering to be a footstool?”

Cahir did not reply to his rouse but went to his side, nonetheless. His back was straight and one gloved hand pressed against his breastplate, over the golden sun. “When should you like this bard, my Lord?”

“Mm,” was the reply.

Emhyr was playing with the sphere again, lounging carelessly with one, still booted, leg flung over the quite overly gilded throne. This time he saw the amber gold of Geralt of Rivia, the taunting gold that he knew deep within his soul knew where Cirilla was. Whatever the witcher was currently doing, he did not know. The sphere was maddening in this way. It could reveal his enemies or his greatest accomplices.

Emhyr’s eyes hardened when the witcher’s eyes seemed to flick upon his own. Like he could see him—his every wish and sin and deny him all at once. The mutations done upon him…upon witchers, in general, were frightening. They were also _thrilling._

“Cahir…have they found it yet?”

“The mage Stregobor believes that they are close.”

“Mm,” Emhyr repeated, curiosity causing him to spin the orb in his fingertips. He watched as Geralt of Rivia’s and Jaskier’s eyes changed back and forth with the turn of his fingertips until a blend of the two nearly had the blood freezing in his veins.

This had never happened before.

For two to become one…Other than his foretold destiny.

For the two to become one…A mutant and human. What could it mean? Emhyr turned it over and over, waiting and trying to make the orb reveal the image again. After a minute or two of trying and failing, he looked up at Cahir with awe and tear-filled eyes.

“Bring Julian Alfred Pankratz to me at once, and call for Stregobor.”

Cahir blinked down at him, shifting his stiff stance after ten minutes of waiting for a reply. He bowed lower, palm flat across his chest. “Gloir aen Ard Feainn.”

* * *

“What does a man have to sing for you to give them just one syllable of your name, m’lady?” Even Jaskier inwardly winced at that one, his lips brushing the soft skin of the huffing lady before him. She curled his hand in her own and tugged him forward until she could press a wet kiss upon his blushing face.

“Your flirting's still as bad as it’s always been, Jaskier. Thank the gods for that.”

Jaskier smiled wide, his eyes twinkling in a way they hadn’t in months. “Priscilla, oh how I’ve missed you.” He cupped her face in his ringed hands and returned the favor, pressing kisses on both cheeks. Priscilla laughed loudly, ignoring the other tavern residents who wanted them both to shut up if they weren’t going to play a song.

“Tell me all that you have seen, Jaskier. It’s been what, two years?” Priscilla pulled Jaskier into her booth, the bard nearly in her lap in her giddiness. A sadness touched the sky-blue of her friend’s eyes and the blonde frowned, one hand cupping his chilled cheek. “You’re traveling alone now…It’s all everyone has been gossiping about for months: _Jaskier and his muse_ …”

Jaskier shook his head quickly at that, eyes closed. He cupped the hand against his cheek, leaning into it. His eyes were dark, hidden well under the fringe that he’d let grow. Priscilla knew him too well though.

“When?” Was her only question.

“Nearly six months ago now.”

“Oh, Jask…” She took him in her arms and simply held him.

If Jaskier were honest, he hadn’t been held like this in a very long time. Just… _held_. Sure, when he was hurt or wounded Geralt would grunt and press a comrade-y hand against his shoulder or knee, but to be _held?_ And by _Geralt of Rivia?_ He’d most likely have to die, and no thank you.

After a good minute or two, Jaskier pulled away with a soft smile. “It’s probably for the best. Last that I heard he had found his Child Surprise and I’m sure that’s been a trial in itself.” Jaskier laughed sadly and wiped at his eyes with one palm. Priscilla looked around then, lips thinned. She leaned in closer.

“I know that much. Jask…Your song of the young lion cub of Cintra?” Jaskier froze at that. Not many had known that Princess Cirilla of Cintra was Geralt’s Child Surprise. However…Fuck. He’d probably told her one point drunk or high off his ass. Jaskier nodded at her, tight-lipped.

To be fair, he put a lot of innuendo in the song. After all, he was a _poet._

Jaskier bit his tongue, he too looking around. No one was outright staring at them. No more than usual, anyway. “Too much?”

Priscilla nodded.

“Fuck.” Jaskier blinked in shock at how much he sounded like Geralt then, an old pain lancing his heart.

Priscilla chuckled softly and ruffled his hair. She then perched her chin in the groove of her palm, arms resting easily on the table, and simply took him in. Jaskier looked tired. Handsome still, but just tired. His clothes were as vibrant as ever, but she could spot dirt on them that Jaskier wouldn’t have been caught dead in only a few years ago. He had scruff too. Not yet a beard, but it was on its way…Too, his too blue eyes held a darkness that hadn’t been there before. Hadn’t been there before…

“He hurt you bad. Geralt.”

Jaskier’s eyes lit briefly at his name, searching her face. He gulped once, controlled, and turned his face to where a brawl had broken out in the tavern. Priscilla clucked her tongue once, straightening up and tapping her jeweled hand on the table to get Jaskier’s attention.

“Well, if you’re gonna clam up about it…grab your lute, and let’s dazzle the coins out of these fine folks.” Jaskier smiled widely at her, but she could see the tears welling in his eyes. _Damn Geralt of Rivia to the lowest circle._ She must have said that out loud because Jaskier was truly laughing then, wiping his eyes and nodding as he grabbed his lute case and pulled his love from it

“Damn right,” Jaskier said and pulled her in by the waist to press a soft kiss upon her lips. He then raised his free hand at the patrons of the tavern, the gems upon his rings shining bright—as _he_ always should. With Priscilla by his side, he found the courage he had lost in a love that burned for nearly twenty years.

“How about a song?” He called out across the dimly lit room, many grumbling at the noise until catching an eye of who had asked. Jaskier was famous now, more famous than Priscilla, sure, but they all watched them both hungrily. Either for their music or beauty, they cared not. What mattered was the coins both gold and silver tossed their way.

At the end of the night, or early in the morning, they had enough coins to split and still live a week or two comfortably without having to perform again. Not that either of them would make it that long.

“Priscilla, my love, say you’ll travel with me?” Jaskier asked her as they’d finished counting the coins, quite toshed and pink-cheeked. He chewed whatever he had in his mouth loudly and Priscilla pushed at him when he opened his mouth louder to gross her out more.

“Ugh, you’re disgusting! _What_ , after that horrid pick-up line from earlier?” Jaskier swallowed loudly, half choking. He pointed one finger at her, aghast.

“That was the best pick-up line that I have!” He’d have liked to say that he was lying. Priscilla laughed so hard that her face nearly turned purple. Jaskier didn’t know how to respond, drunk as he was, and laughed with her. Luckily the tavern was near empty then, surely the sun about to rise yet again.

“Ugh,” Priscilla groaned after half-dying, her stomach hurting for an entirely new reason. “Of course I’ll travel with you, you idiot!” She ruffled his hair again, testing the length with her fingers. “Of course, there is a price…”

Jaskier groaned then, but let her do as she wished, wincing as she pulled at the uneven scruff on his chin. “Pris, that is connected to my face…”

“Unfortunately,” She told him with one risen blonde eyebrow and he then knew the price.

“You can shave to your heart’s content.”

Priscilla’s eyebrow rose higher then and Jaskier flushed. “Within reason,” he corrected quickly and Priscilla let out a soft “boo _._ ” She rose from the table with a long stretch, Jaskier thinking that she mimicked a cat in that way. She was always graceful, beautiful, and terribly kind. It was a shame they never truly fell in love. Their children would have been beautiful.

“Now _that_ was a good pickup line,” Priscilla cooed as she continued to stretch, her hands tangling up in the air as she held back a wince at a loud crack. Jaskier fumbled uselessly, not realizing his drunk thoughts were spewed so loudly. At least they were good.

Priscilla picked up the heavy bag of coins in one hand and pulled a very intoxicated Jaskier from his seat with the other, the bard dragging his lute case and another small case along with him. Putting the money away and grabbing her own bag, she curled herself into him, pressing a cold nose against his too warm throat. Jaskier froze for a moment before he chuckled deep in his chest, one of his hands wrapping around her waist to hold her there as they met the chill of the morning.

“It is a shame, isn’t it?” Priscilla asked him sweetly and Jaskier looked down at her with all the love in his heart.

“I love you more than I do myself, and that’s saying something.” Priscilla smiled widely at that, the two friends wrapped up in each other so much that they nearly ran into one or two people on the street. Not that they’d truly notice.

“Where to next, then?” Priscilla asked as they crossed yet another street, going wherever Jaskier’s rather useless legs wobbled.

“First, to a tavern to sleep, dearest.” Priscilla blinked at that, outright confused.

“Was the tavern not to your liking? It was to our pockets!”

The very same darkness hardened in Jaskier’s eyes again. Priscilla had hoped it to be gone longer than a few hours. “I don’t fancy staying too long in one place these days, Pris. You said it yourself…innuendos. In my case, more than one.” He wiggled his brows at her to try and get a smile, but Priscilla knew him too well.

Jaskier was scared. Hell, they all were. However, Jaskier was alone now and had been for half a year. He wasn’t used to being on his own for that long anymore and hadn’t felt as unsafe as he did now in a very long time. After all, he’d traveled with Geralt for nearly two decades. What did he have to fear then? You know, other than monsters and the like, but Geralt took care of that. All he tended to was his music and the reputation of witchers. His music earned him his fame, the other earned him a mangled heart. Now, Jaskier was alone and the Continent was buzzing with more fear and questions, and unfortunately, all of them lead to this: Where was the Lion cub of Cintra.

“I think you’ve mucked up this time, Jask.” Priscilla told him worriedly, eyes scanning the streets. “If I know who you’ve been singing of…who else do you think does?” Jaskier gulped down a harsh fear, a blazing sun on an armor of pitch coming to mind.

“It’ll be fine. I’ll be okay. I just…gotta keep moving.” With the sun near blinding them now, Jaskier led Priscilla into a tavern about half a mile from the one they had performed at, both of them quick to look over their shoulders and check their bags. Jaskier checked them into a room and left a hefty tip for the barmaid to keep their names hidden, should anyone ask.

“And when do you stop? Running?” Priscilla asked mid-yawn when they were safe in their room, the door locked the best of their ability. Jaskier sent her a haughty look as he ruffled through his luggage on their bed.

“When the war is bloody over, most likely.” Jaskier huffed and suddenly looked his age. He took a deep, steadying breath and closed his eyes. “Sometimes it feels like the world gets darker with each passing day. Every moment…every _breath_. I miss being able to breathe, Pris. Now it seems like the very air steals my breath…and song.”

“Oh, Jaskier…”

Jaskier closed his eyes when Priscilla’s arms wrapped around his waist. He leaned his temple against her own. “I am scared, Pris. Very…and I didn’t run into you by chance last night either.” Jaskier pulled a necklace from a smaller pouch he pulled from his bag, the end of the chain revealing a bright aqua gem. He turned in Priscilla’s arms, unclasping the end of the necklace to put around her head.

“Jaskier, what…?” Priscilla asked him with teary eyes as he fastened the clasp behind her neck, softly pulling her long blonde curls out of the way to do so. When the gem settled upon her skin it vibrated, glowing a faint blue-green and Priscilla gasped, touching the necklace in awe and worry. “What is this?”

Jaskier looked at her seriously, all drink seeming to wash from his system at once. “It will glow if a Nilfgaardian draws near…or mage. A dear friend made them for me.” Priscilla then saw the very same necklace around Jaskier’s own neck, the gem hidden beneath his light gray chemise and chest hair.

“Why are you giving this to me? I’m not important to the narrative…to Nilfgaard.” Jaskier took her free hand and pressed it against his chest, right over the gem. His blue eyes stared into her own and she gulped slowly at the complex emotion hidden there.

“You’re important to me. That’s plenty enough. For me and for Nilfgaard…Pris, the war is closing in on us. We have to be prepared.”

“I doubt a magical gem will protect us from those who wish us harm, Jask.” Her sentence was quick and her voice too high. She looked away quickly, her eyes falling to the soft tan of something strapped to Jaskier’s thigh that she hadn’t noticed before. A dagger. He smiled at her, coy.

“No, it won’t, but it will help us get away faster. It will vibrate and glow in the presence of another wearer too, so it is helpful in that regard to. In the presence of a friend, it will vibrate and then glow. In the presence of an enemy…It won’t stop vibrating until they are at least a few hundred feet from you.”

“That’s…a lot. Does it come with instructions?”

Jaskier chuckled low. “No, but trust me when I say that when an enemy is near…you’ll know. It’s honestly terrifying, but it’s saved my bacon more than once.” Priscilla’s fingers gripped his chemise, fear in her eyes.

“Can’t you find Geralt of Rivia? Any other witcher? Jaskier…”

Jaskier shook his head, eyes falling to the necklace around her neck. “Triss offered to kick his ass more than once already and I told her to leave it. I don’t need or want his help, Priscilla. If you need it though, I will ask Triss if she can help you.” Priscilla smiled at him warmly, reaching up to cup one scruffy cheek.

“You’ve grown more mature and kind, but I will not go if you do not follow me. If Nilfgaard is coming for anyone, it will be you. Surely Geralt must realize that?”

Jaskier’s eyes grew darker. “If he does, he would not care.” Priscilla winced at the venom of his words. “If he has Ciri…he will protect her with everything he has. He does not have the time to think of me. I can fend for myself.”

“Yes…” Priscilla murmured and Jaskier pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“We musicians must rest as the sun rises, as is be our plight.” Jaskier pulled away from her only to shimmy his trousers down his long legs and run a quick hand through his messy locks, standing only in his smalls before her. Priscilla rolled her eyes.

“Charming,” She cooed as she unlaced her floral embroidered corset and dress until she was in her nightclothes too, both of them comfortable in sharing this intimacy. She let herself be pulled into the comfort of his arms upon their hard hay-stuffed bed and they fell into an easy silence, both listening to the birds outside the equally tiny window.

“You’ll be able to breathe again one day, my Dandelion…I know it. You’ll find your light again.”

“Go to sleep Priscilla,” Jaskier murmured with a soft smile, pressing a warm kiss against her cheek. She closed her eyes and did just that.

* * *

Stregobor was irritated. Fringilla had told him not too long ago of King Emhyr’s wish, the simple scribble clear before it disintegrated into thin air, just as it had come:

_Double the search. He wants the scrolls at once._

“ _Scrolls_?” Stregobor scoffed under his breath, leaning heavily upon his staff as he watched Nilfgaardian slaves dig in the thick mud, not fifty feet from where he stood. _Scrolls_? No one knew what they would find in the ruins.

The mage looked around him, at the crumbling and charred stones ruined nearly a hundred years ago. He could still feel the anger in the soil, though he sincerely doubted that the slaves digging could. It seemed the heavens did though. The rain was thick and all-engulfing. Not that it mattered to Stregobor, whose staff created a shield around him against it.

“Put your backs into it!” One soldier screamed, pushing one laborer down deeper into the black mud below them all. Stregobor sighed, annoyed that there was yet to be a salvageable discovery. They’d been digging for months…

“Damn mutants,” Stregobor hissed with venom under his breath. Leave it to them to die with their secrets. They couldn’t keep them forever. Eventually, something would be discovered. It had to be. This was the closest that they had gotten…The other ruins were simply that: flattened and scavenged long ago by either mutant, mage, or even human. The only other standing ruin was an impossibility. So, it had to be this one.

It _had_ to be this one.

Stregobor went into his tent in a huff, listening to the rain beat down against the thick burlap overhead. He walked over to a table, scattered with some of the better findings from the excavation. He sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed shut.

“What are you doing in my tent, Vilgefortz?” Stregobor asked under his breath. “Isn’t there something more important you could be doing?”

Vilgefortz huffed at him, pushing himself out of a chair in the corner. “This rain is endless, isn’t it?”

“This _search_ is endless,” Stregobor growled at him. “Months in the dirt and what have we found? Bones, pottery, scraps of useless pieces of paper! Nothing on the trials!”

Vilgefortz simply watched him, wondering not for the first time how this man had gotten where he had in life, considering how much he whined. However, Stregobor was as scrappy as the rest of them. All mages had to be if they wanted to survive. After all, it was how he had survived. Maybe it was the fact that he hated Stregobor on a personal level because he was whiney. Frankly, quite bitchy.

“Are you listening?” Stregobor growled again, near snapping his fingers in Vilgefortz’ face. Vilgefortz’ brown gaze settled on him, his eyes as sharp as the blades upon his waist, his body language clear: _don’t do that again._ Stregobor forced himself not to back down.

“I always listen to the important bits. Not that any of what you said was important, other than the bits of paper…and yet.” He turned to the table Stregobor had been hissing at, ignoring the other mage as he grumbled still. Turning to the pottery, he picked up a dulled shard and turned it in his hand.

“It’s interesting, right? That for all their work, they were dismantled into this.”

Stregobor huffed. “It’s a wonder there’s a school left standing at all. If I could, I would destroy them all. Or, keep them and use them as they were meant to be used…” He turned and picked up a mangled sword fragment, lifting the hilt to show Vilgefortz the insignia there. “Weapons, Vilgefortz. That is what we are here for. With their demise, the schools took their greatest weapon with them…themselves.”

Vilgefortz took the offered fragment, rubbing a thumb against the insignia. “School of the Manticore…How many schools were there again? Eight?”

“I don’t give a shit how many there were. The two we’ve scavenged have been useless.”

Vilgefortz laughed low, disgusted. “You are a fool if you don’t find the mutants interesting. I want to know more…What makes them tick. What makes them…hurt. This is where it begins, in their ruin. I want to know what they knew and taste the power that they still have.”

“Then you’re in the right place,” Stregobor told him under his breath, peering out the flap of his tent into the dreary cold again.

“Always am,” Vilgefortz told him and stood by him, watching the workers dig their fingers cold and muddy. As they watched, there was a sudden commotion on the far side of the excavation, loud shouts of Nilfgaardian reaching their ears. A soldier popped his head around a fallen tower, pulling his helmet off as he looked at both Stregobor and Vilgefortz. He nodded once, both fear and awe plastered on his muddy face.

“At last,” Stregobor hissed through his teeth with triumph. He rushed out of the tent, leaning heavily on his staff. Vilgefortz was hot on his heels, the mage pushing his soaked black locks from his face. “What have you found?” Stregobor demanded, pushing both slave and soldier away in his attempts to get through the crowd that had formed around the commotion. When Stregobor finally got to where he wanted, his face grew pallid. Vilgefortz let out a sound of amazement next to him.

It was…a mass of bodies. Ten…Twenty…Thirty? The number seemed to grow as their eyes traced what lay before them. There were so many. They had wondered where the mutants lied. Sure, they had found bodies in their search, but this…

“What is this?” Vilgefortz asked them, soldiers and slaves alike.

The bodies were linked together like chainmail. Arms, legs…all gripping one another. They were nearly perfectly preserved too, skulls and other bones smashed by the fall of the castle, but still practically whole.

“We’ve found it,” Stregobor murmured in awe, his staff passing from one trembling hand to the other. He looked at Vilgefortz with a wide smile, a laugh passing through his lips. There was no way that it was anything else. For them all to protect something as they had. It had to be…?

“The trials,” Vilgefortz said aloud, saying what they all wanted in their hearts. What they had been searching for, for _months._ Something dark flashed in his rain-soaked eyes as he looked upon the bodies before them, his eyes falling upon a surviving chain wrapped around one of the body's neck. He half slipped as he went closer into the mud, Stregobor calling after him. Ignoring Stregobor and the other nervous laborers around him, he pulled one glove off and reached for the medallion. It vibrated at his touch and he smiled.

“Amazing,” Vilgefortz mumbled and ripped the chain from the dead witcher’s neck, the bone like solid rock. _Great, another problem_ , he thought but this was a victory. He turned to Stregobor with opened arms, a loud cheer slipping from his mouth to breach even the dreary heavens above them.

Or, it was a victory. Until the medallion started to vibrate harder than before in Vilgefortz’ palm, it having gone silent after he had claimed it for his own. Vilgefortz’ tried to yell a warning and Stregobor formed a stronger shield for himself before a bright purple light burst from the bodies. It sent Vilgefortz and everyone else within a few feet from it flying. A shield was formed from the light, protecting what Nilfgaard had dug _months_ for.

Stregobor screamed in rage, the mage now seeing the sign that the intact bones had made before their deaths. _Quen._

* * *

Jaskier and Priscilla avoided trouble for nearly three weeks. Honestly, it was amazing that they had gone that far. Their money had lasted them as they thought it would, as did the acknowledgment that they could not go a week without performing. However, with the second performance, they noticed that eyes stayed on them far too long for their liking and they knew that it had nothing to do with music.

Jaskier had retired the Lion Cub of Cintra, but that no longer mattered. People knew of the song and knew who Jaskier was and who he was _with._ Or, had been with.

So, they stopped playing and started running. They ran from town to town, each time finding more and more eyes upon them. Then, the moment came when Jaskier’s blood ran cold:

**_WANTED_ ** _: Bard and friend of Geralt of Rivia, Julian Alfred Pankratz, ex-Viscount of Lettenhove._

There was no denying then. Jaskier truly was being hunted by Nilfgaard. Priscilla had gripped his hand so hard that her knuckles popped, but Jaskier hadn’t feel it. He was numb.

What had he done?

He’d practically signed Priscilla’s death warrant. For what? Not wanting to be alone?

From then on, every time their necklaces even looked _slightly_ brighter, they ran. Their anxieties were through the roof and Jaskier hated it for Priscilla. He hated that she was now pulled into this shit.

It got the point to where Jaskier pulled Priscilla far from any town and into a forest near Kaedwen. There were too many suns.

They were being hunted openly.

They were hunted and it was all Jaskier’s fault.

“Jaskier what are we going to do now?” Priscilla asked, shivering and pulling the doublet that Jaskier had insisted she wear closer to her face. It was late in the evening and the sun had set, but looking at the city in the distance they could see torches. They were searching in the night too.

Jaskier pulled her close, breathing deep through his nose. He knew what he had to do and hated himself for it, but he had already pulled her in too deep.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that it would get this bad…That they would hunt me this hard. It’s my fault. I should have known not to mention the cub—” Jaskier was rambling, but he was scared and cold and this was goodbye.

“Of course you couldn’t have known, Jask. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay!” She didn’t believe her words and she knew that he knew that too. She was scared. Jaskier rubbed her arms, his eyes flicking back and forth in thought over her shoulder. He pulled away from her and ripped his smaller satchel off his back and onto the forest floor, his lute case with it. Priscilla watched him in horror as he rustled through his bag, finding a small box. The box appeared to have lips on it.

“What is that?” Priscilla asked, but Jaskier ignored her. He lifted the box to his lips, his hands trembling but not because of the cold.

“Triss? Triss, can you hear me?”

He was met with silence.

“Please, please…” Jaskier whispered into it, practically pressing his lips against the box’s own.

“Jaskier? _Please_?” Priscilla cried, her eyes falling upon the sight of torches heading their way. How would they even know?!

Jaskier trembled openly now, feeling more alone than he had when Geralt had cursed his very existence. He turned to Priscilla, looking once at the ever-growing closeness of the torches, and made up his mind.

Jaskier placed the Xenovox in her trembling palms and then quickly checked the money in her pack, nodding to himself at the amount. He then grabbed his lute case, ignoring her as she started shaking her head. He paused only for a second before he strapped his lute onto her back. His friend was openly crying now and he grabbed her shoulders, looking her in the eyes.

“I want you to get out of here. I’ll lead them away into the woods. Priscilla, I am so sorry!” Their necklaces were glowing bright now, the vibration nearly the same pace as their hearts.

“They’ll see me. They’ll _catch_ you!” She wept loudly.

“I’d rather them catch me than you!” Jaskier lifted her hand that held the Xenovox. “This is a device that you can call for help, okay? Her name is Triss Merigold and she can help you.” Priscilla tried to give it back then, shaking her head.

“Then you take it!”

“She’s not listening right now…but she can help you.” He pressed a chilled palm against her cheek, resting his forehead against her own. “Take care of my lute, yeah? Now go!” Jaskier gave her a slight push and she started running down the tree-line, stumbling in the dark but still going. Jaskier watched her for a moment before looking at the sight of the torches again. He could hear them now—their horses, their yelling.

“ _Fuck_!” Jaskier roared and ripped the glowing pendant from his neck, wishing he had had the sense to tell Priscilla to take hers off too. It was a fucking beacon now. “Let it be a beacon for me alone,” He hissed into the chill of the night and snatched his other satchel off the ground, running in the opposite way that Priscilla had.

Jaskier knew he wouldn’t make it. How could he when they had horses and he did not? But fuck them and fuck their horses too! Before he could hear the snorts of the horses, he tried to make a bee-line for the forest.

Until an arrow found its home in his calf.

Jaskier went down with a blood-curdling scream, on his front. His eyes were closed tight in searing pain, but he could hear the hooves prance around him in a mocking dance. He tried to reach for the arrow but found his limbs were more sluggish than they should be.

Poison?

“ _Pric…s…_ ” Jaskier breathed into the cold wet grass, his vision blurring as he watched the gem that he still held tight in his fist glow to a near blinding blue-white. He passed out as someone pulled him up by his chemise, tearing the fabric in the process.

The gem was left behind, the horses crushing it to pieces. 


	2. The Taunting Lark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triss found the Xenovox quickly, listening in. Nothing was happening. “Hello? Jaskier?”
> 
> “Jaskier?! Oh, Jaskier!” Ciri cried, joy upon her face, and Triss shushed her again. Eskel popped his head in the room then, eyebrows furrowed. Lambert about crashed into him.
> 
> “Jaskier?” They both asked at once and Triss had half the mind to throw something at them.
> 
> Suddenly, there came a reply: “H….hello?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist using an actual quote from "Blood of Elves"! Too, Jaskier just wants to sass his captors and my dude...my guy.

_You died on the Hill, Triss Merigold._

Triss’ eyebrows furrowed in her sleep and sweat wet her brow.

_Why have you come here?_

_**Why have you come here?** _

The mage’s head tossed on her pillow, her hands curled into the furs and threatening to smother her.

_Go back, go back at once and take this child, the Child of Elder Blood, with you. Return her to those to whom she belongs. Do this, Fourteenth One. Because if you do not…you will die once more._

Triss woke with a shout, her curls wild and sweat beading upon her brow. She shot up in her bed, her brown eyes searching wildly. For what, she was not sure. She was haunted by many ghosts and pains. She pressed one clammy palm across her forehead, pushing her curls from her face.

“Breathe,” She told herself as she had many times before. “Calm.” She let out long, shaky breaths, her hands curling themselves in the warm furs of her bed. “You are in Kaer Morhen. You are safe and whole. You are not part of the fourteen.” She ignored the tiny voice in the back of her head, one that told her that she still could be.

_If you do not…you will die once more._

Triss covered her mouth with one hand, eyes tightly closed. She let out a slow shaky breath through her lips, timidly swinging her legs over to the edge of her bed.

“Merigold?”

Triss huffed a laugh. Damn witcher hearing.

“I’m fine,” She said softly, mostly to herself, knowing that they would probably hear the reply rooms away anyway. She reached for the shawl thrown over the chair closest to her and wrapped it around her shoulders to block out some of the chill of the castle. She then walked to her window, peering down into the ice-covered courtyard.

Geralt was there, as was Ciri. They were training and the sun hadn’t yet shown itself.

The witcher was near merciless. His speed, his pose. However, Triss had known Geralt for years. He was holding back, a bit. For one, Ciri was wearing pads. Yes, they were old as shit and probably wouldn’t really help if she were actually _struck_ , but still. Their weapons were made of wood too. Geralt would never purposefully put his charge in true danger. A few bruises, cuts and sprains, however… In truth, it was more mercy than he had had in his own training. Which was the point. There wouldn’t be another child tortured in Kaer Morhen, nor any other place, if helped. The remnants of the trials would die with them, _in_ them.

Cirilla was a different case though, and now Triss understood that too. Especially after witnessing her gifts firsthand when she had first come to Kaer Morhen. The princess had been the first to meet her, on horseback. Thinking back on it sent chills down the mage’s spine, but the words had yet to leave her mind…and her dreams.

Triss’ eyes fell upon the princess, watching her braid whip around as she tried to hit Geralt. That was the objective: strike Geralt once. Yeah right. Triss half laughed, shaking her head. She opened her paneled window just in time to catch:

“You’re favoring your right.” That was the only warning.

Geralt swept Ciri’s feet out from under her with one foot. Triss winced at how hard she hit the stone. She heard Ciri huff angrily, the mage imagining how dark the green of her eyes were as he stared up at her mentor then. A manic laugh came from _somewhere_ and Triss knew Lambert was watching them all.

“Shut _up_ , Lambert!” Ciri hissed into the cold, the princess getting yet another chuckle for her troubles. She turned on her side, wincing as she moved her right knee. Triss sighed. Another bruise to tend to.

Geralt twirled the wooden sword easily in a few fingers, his eyes locking with Ciri’s own. He spared her only a second, Triss wincing once again as the sword he held so playfully before came down to pin the teenager where she was. Ciri rolled out of the way just in time.

“He’s getting soft,” a weathered voice came from behind Triss. She held back her jolt but sent a withering scowl over her shoulder at Vesemir. He gave her a soft smile, the corner of his mouth barely visible in the dark room. His golden eyes near glowed though.

“He could use some softening,” Triss murmured as she went back to watching the two blur around near dizzyingly. She stepped to the side to allow Vesemir to stand by her, the older witcher humming at the thought. “You all could,” she commented more, nudging Vesemir in the side. His smile grew, but still resembled more of a scowl.

“Any softer, then he may as well lay back and let the girl strike to her heart’s content. Now, come. You’ve had a restless night. Eskel is in the kitchen and I’d like it to stay as whole as it possibly can.”

Triss laughed softly, sparring the courtyard another glance. Ciri’s braid had come undone, the young princess holding a feral look in her eyes as she panted wildly. She’d lost her sword at some point. Geralt hadn’t broken a sweat, not one white hair out of place from his bun. He let his weapon rest only a second before a _blur_ attacked.

Geralt of course saw this coming and caught a hissing Lambert, claws bared. Ciri squealed with a bewildered laugh as Geralt fell, the younger witcher grappling to pin him down. There was a blur of limbs, both witchers fighting for dominance.

“Fucking children,” Vesemir sighed into the morning air and both Geralt and Lambert barked a laugh. Triss rolled her eyes and shut her window, following Vesemir out of her room.

Lambert and Geralt still wrestled without their audience, the two practically like their namesake with snapping teeth.

“What are you waiting for, runt? Jab ‘im!” Lambert roared at Ciri, kicking Geralt’s wooden sword her way. Ciri grabbed it without a second thought, Lambert’s eyes holding a wild glint in them that matched her own. Geralt hissed, but was smiling with his teeth as Ciri walked his way. Lambert rolled back slightly, but had Geralt pretty much in a headlock, wrapped around the other like an octopus…of which he would regret later, he was sure.

Ciri poked the sword in the middle of Geralt’s cotton-clad torso, dressed much differently than she was in the cold of the mountain. “I got you,” she said, her green eyes challenging and playful at the same time.

“Get off of me,” Geralt told Lambert and the younger witcher barked another laugh, helping his brother stand. Before they reached verticality Geralt tackled Lambert to the ground again, Lambert hissing. Ciri rolled her eyes, sparing a glance at Triss’ window, a near hollow look in her green eyes.

“Flee…Fourteenth One.”

“What? Ciri?”

Ciri trembled violently in answer, as if for the cold. She could tell herself that it was simply that, but… She looked back at Lambert and Geralt to find them both standing and staring at her. Geralt’s eyes were dark and knowing. Lambert looked at Geralt, his eyebrows furrowed. They were having fun not thirty seconds ago.

“Come,” Geralt called simply and headed back to the castle, his demeanor stiff with worry. Lambert sighed and slung an easy arm over Ciri’s shoulders.

“He’s fucking uptight as shit.” Ciri huffed at him, looking up at him with a sad smile on her lips, and allowed him to steer her towards the castle for breakfast.

* * *

Jaskier let out a shaky breath, his consciousness returning to him annoyingly slow.

“Ah, the flower stirs,” a rich voice murmured and Jaskier’s eyebrows rose. He wanted to wipe at his heavy eyes, but winced at the clanking sound the manacles of his wrists made when he tried to move. Huh, so he was stuck. Great. “Well, we can’t have you running again, now can we?”

“…-et out my fucking head,” Jaskier mumbled, blinking rapidly. The voice chuckled low.

“You said your thought aloud.”

“Fuckin’ peachy.”

Jaskier opened his eyes then, the light warm and comfortable despite his circumstances. You know, being possibly poisoned, half-frozen, and everything hurting like hell. Before taking in the room, Jaskier looked at his leg with a grimace. It was wrapped neatly, but the wound was still bleeding. Or… oozing.

“That’s gross as shit.”

“That’s what you get for running from soldiers.”

Jaskier blinked at the voice, looking up to find a blond man standing before him, his armor black and eyes equally as dark. The bard took in a deep breath, fear cutting through his features without his say so. The man simply cocked his head to the side, watching him.

“You know who I am.” It wasn’t a question.

“…The Black Knight,” Jaskier mumbled, his lips barely moving. He was in real deep shit. Cahir sighed and sat on a stool before him, the bard pulling away but unable to truly _get_ away. That’s when Jaskier spared the room, no, _tent_ , a quick look. It was sturdy…simple, and only had what the general needed: a cot, furs, maps, weapons…Jaskier. Jaskier shivered.

“Are you cold?”

Jaskier blinked at the question, looking back at him. Well, his chemise _was_ hanging in shreds from his torso. “Why should it matter? I am your prisoner.” Jaskier rattled his chains, glancing at what he was tied to, to find that it was the main beam of the tent. He was pinned like a bug to a wall, and his collector gave him a half-smile, the gesture almost human.

“Prisoner…yes. You have something we want.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows rose again. “If you’re after my lute, then you’re out of luck, bud.” The bard wasn’t stupid. He knew what they were after and what they wanted, but he couldn’t help jab at them a little bit. After all, they had shot him in the leg. Fuck ‘em.

Cahir smiled with ease. “No, I imagine that your friend has that.”

Jaskier froze for an entirely new reason, his blood feeling like lead in his veins. Priscilla. Had they pursued her too? Did they have her? Was she hurt? Jaskier caught himself half shaking his head last second.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jaskier winced at that and tried not to look at the general, focusing his attention on his injury instead.

Cahir sighed. “Famed spy of Redania and that’s the best you can come up with? Really?”

Jaskier met his stare then, his blue eyes sharp and chin raised high—defiant. “You know who I am.” It wasn’t a question and Cahir smiled wide then, his teeth showing. The general let out an amused chuckle, nodding. He reached over and gripped Jaskier by the knee, the _bad_ leg, and jostled it playfully. Jaskier hissed in pain and tried to curl in on himself. Cahir rose from his seat, acting as if nothing happened.

“You hungry?”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

“That’s rather forward,” Cahir called over his shoulder, grabbing an apple from a table and biting into it messily.

“Then maybe you _don’t_ know who I am,” Jaskier told him, the bard trying to wiggle around and see what the other man was doing. The general picked something else upon his desk and walked back over to plop carelessly back down in front of Jaskier, who was staring at his hand. Cahir showed the bard easily, leaning forward to rest his elbows upon his knees.

A metal link dropped easily from one finger, catching on the tip to dangle before him.

It was a chain. His. Hopefully, _his_ …

“You dropped this,” The general said and Jaskier let out a held breath. Thank the gods. Cahir’s eyes watched him carefully. He brought his pointer finger to rest under one eye, the half-eaten apple still wrapped in his palm. “You give too much away. It’s all in your eyes.”

Jaskier gulped, eyes flicking back and forth in thought. He looked at Cahir, eyes hardened. The general leaned back, smiling at him. He took another bite of his apple and Jaskier’s stomach growled, betraying him.

The bard grit his teeth. “Then you don’t need me to repeat anything.”

“That’s not how this works, Jaskier. I’m sure you already have the scars to prove it.”

A muscle jumped in Jaskier’s jaw. He leaned forward and met Cahir’s eyes head-on. “I don’t mind adding a few more scars."

“Good,” Cahir murmured. “Let’s begin.”

* * *

Priscilla was lost. Lost and very cold. She was too frightened to come out of the woods, not that she knew how to get out of them now…She was in too deep. It had stared to snow too, the sun not yet rising. Without knowing exactly how hyperthermia felt or worked, she knew she was well on her way—if she didn’t have it already.

“ _D-dammit_ ,” Priscilla cursed, shivering. Her lips were cold and she was sure that she had a fever. She held onto Jaskier’s lute with one arm, pressing it closer as if the wood would suddenly become Jaskier himself. In one hand she held the Xenovox. “Jask…” She mumbled miserably, her eyes too frozen to tear up anymore.

Priscilla had heard him scream. It was _terrible._ She hadn’t stopped running though, understanding that she had the device that could save both of their asses. However…the few times that she had tried, there was no answer. So, she ran harder—farther. She ran until the blue of her necklace dimmed and she was left in the dark, fumbling.

“N-now w-what?” Priscilla asked herself, backing up until her back hit the trunk of a tree. She slid down it, trembling violently and huddling the lute close. She fumbled with the Xenovox once as she brought it to her mouth, eyes closed.

“P-please…if you can h-hear me…” She inhaled a sharp, icy, breath when she heard the howling of wolves. She let out a small, frightened cry. “I-I don’t think I’m g-gonna make it!” At that confession, her head felt like it was swimming and the device fell from her hand and into her lap, the snow starting to settle.

* * *

It was near mid-morning when Triss heard it. The uneasiness that she had felt hours before suddenly felt crushing then. The Xenovox. _Jaskier._

“Triss?” Ciri asked, wide-eyed as the mage suddenly jumped up from her seat, mid-lesson and scramble for her bags. Triss didn’t reply right away, waving one hand at her to try and calm her. Though she herself was about to have a panic.

Was this it? The reason that she felt on edge?

She found the Xenovox quickly, listening in. Nothing was happening. “Hello? Jaskier?”

“Jaskier?! Oh, Jaskier!” Ciri cried, joy upon her face, and Triss shushed her again. Eskel popped his head in the room then, eyebrows furrowed. Lambert about crashed into him.

“Jaskier?” They both asked at once and Triss had half the mind to throw something at them.

Suddenly, there came a reply: “H….hello?”

 _That_ wasn’t Jaskier. However…

“Hello! Who are you and where is Jaskier?” Triss called back, swatting at all three of them when they got into her personal space.

“Where is the bard at? What the _fuck_ is happenin— _mnph_!” Ciri slapped her hand over Lambert’s mouth, the witcher pouting. That’s when Geralt appeared, the witcher wiping the sword oil from his hands as he took in the four of them, all huddled around a device held in Triss’ hand.

“Is that a Xenovox?”

They all ignored his obvious question.

“P-Priscilla…” The Xenovox told them and Geralt crowded in close too.

“ _Priscilla_?” He asked, recalling the name falling fondly from Jaskier’s mouth many times. His stomach jumbled in knots. If this was Priscilla, then maybe…his stomach hurt worse and had butterflies at the same time.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice was soft, like a prayer, and everyone’s eyes turned to him. Ciri watched him with an odd expression.

“P-please help me,” Priscilla’s voice whimpered and whatever complex emotion Geralt had felt suddenly turned into complete dread. The room was near over-run with tension.

“Where are you?” It was Eskel that beat them to it, his jaw set. There was no reply.

“Priscilla, where are you?” Triss asked louder, and there was a slight gasp. Whatever had happened, the woman was clearly in danger. They could ask questions later. “I can come get you,” Triss added, hopefully.

“K….Kaedwen. D-deep in the forest…Ban Ard.”

They all looked at one another. Was Jaskier there too, then? Triss gasped then, recalling the necklaces she had made for Jaskier months ago.

“Priscilla, did Jaskier give you a necklace? It has a gem on it.”

“…Wearing it,” Priscilla croaked and Triss about hopped up and down with glee. The other three in the room were _really_ looking at her funny now.

“Don’t take it off, I’m coming to get you both!” There was a grumble of a reply, but Triss knew that Priscilla had heard her. She put the Xenovox down and pushed them all back with one hand. Geralt grabbed it.

“I’m coming with you,” He told her and Triss gave him a dark look.

“I am your friend, Geralt, but I am Jaskier’s too.” The words struck Geralt hard, as they meant to.

“I realize that,” Geralt said, his golden eyes revealing the hurt that she had hid their relationship from him, but also understood. He had fucked up bad.

“We can discuss later, we need to get going.” Triss pulled away and grabbed a necklace very similar to the ones she had given Jaskier. She looked at them all, incredulous. “What? You think I’m going to give Jaskier magical amulets and _not_ put a tracking device on them? I’m not an amateur.”

“You’re scary as fuck is what you are,” Lambert hissed at her, but his eyes sparkled with fondness. Eskel gave a deep chuckle, nodding at Geralt in a way that said: _be safe and do right._ Geralt nodded back, tight-lipped. Triss smiled and closed her eyes, the gem held tight in her hand. Her eyebrows furrowed as she tried to concentrate on the gems’ locations. She felt sick when one of the links didn’t show up at all, but she didn’t dare say. Maybe for her own hopes, but also for her friends’.

“Tell Vesemir we’ll be back soon.” Geralt told them all, watching Triss as she found Priscilla and Jaskier.

“I want to go!” Ciri cried and everyone looked at her.

“It’s not safe for you out there, cub. We’ll be back before you know it and you’ll meet some new friends.”

Ciri blinked at him. “I already know Jaskier.”

Geralt blinked back, confused, but Triss pulled him away.

“Speak later, young cub. We have business to attend.” With that, the mage took a deep breath and created a portal. Geralt took a deep breath, bracing himself for the gods-awful feeling of stepping into a portal, and did just that, Triss following quickly. The remaining three stared at where they had disappeared, still quite confused.

“Are they going to be okay?” Ciri turned and asked both Eskel and Lambert, the two brothers sharing a look.

“Geralt’s definitely gonna throw up, but they should be fine— _ow_ ,” Lambert finished with a wince when Eskel jabbed him in the side.

Eskel pulled Ciri in with one arm, hugging her tenderly. “They’ll be fine, cub. Now, you said that you’ve already met Jaskier?” Ciri’s eyes lit up.

“Yeah! He’s come to every birthday celebration that I’ve ever had!”

Eskel’s eyes rose and Lambert let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Leave it to Jaskier to know Geralt’s Child Surprise before he ever did! I bet Queen Calanthe got tired of tossing him out on his ass after the first few times.”

Ciri chuckled too, her eyes sad and soft. “Jaskier was one of my mom’s best friends! He would visit us often…I miss him, very much.”

“Well, damn,” Eskel murmured and Lambert agreed. Jaskier was busier than he had made them all believe. Perhaps his heart truly was that big. Though, they all knew that it was...and that Geralt had truly fucked up. Not that they would say that outright to his face-- _again_.

* * *

When Geralt and Triss walked through the portal, they were met with blinding amounts of snow and wind. Geralt’s eyes adjusted quickly, the witcher scanning the snow before him. He found who they were looking for quick: there was a person face-down in the snow, Jaskier’s lute lying next to them.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt gasped and felt horror drip from his every limb. He ran to them and fell to his knees. Triss hurried over too, the mage helping Geralt flip the person carefully, but quickly. It was Priscilla instead, the blonde woman gray and her lips blue.

“ _Priscilla_ ,” Triss called out worriedly, Geralt blinking at her in near shock. Where was Jaskier? Why did she have his lute? “Geralt, focus! She’s barely breathing, we need to take her back!” Geralt did focus then, the witcher grabbing Jaskier’s lute and holding it close.

“But…Jaskier,” the witcher murmured, unheard from the wind. Triss gave him a soft, knowing, look.

“Priscilla first. She can tell us more when she heals."

Geralt swallowed heavily, but nodded and swung Jaskier’s lute across his back. He then gathered the wounded woman in his arms easily, hissing at how cold she was. “Hypothermia,” he commented simply and Triss’ lips thinned in a tight line as she made another portal.

Geralt truly did almost puke when they arrived back in Kaer Morhen, in Triss’ room, as if nothing terrible had happened. He looked down at the woman in his arms and she looked even grayer, the witcher quickly depositing her on Triss’ bed. He then turned to the fireplace and quickly cast _Igni_ as Triss cast a healing spell upon Priscilla, Elder on her lips. They hadn’t been gone long, but long enough for the others to find another means to keep themselves busy. Geralt went over and locked the door anyway. Not that a locked door would keep any of them out, but…

“What else can I do?” Geralt asked and reverently took Jaskier’s lute from his back. He couldn’t let it go.

“Sit in a corner and brood for a bit,” Triss mumbled under her breath, her eyes closed and sweat on her brow. A pang hit Geralt’s heart at her words, reminding him of the first time he’d met Jaskier.

Geralt hated to admit it, but he was terrified.


	3. Wounded Lark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You haven’t breathed in five minutes. Geralt, breathe.” Eskel demanded and Geralt did, but still felt like he would choke. He rigidly pressed his closed fists on Eskel’s back, misery clutching him tight.
> 
> “Fuck emotions,” Geralt growled into Eskel’s gambeson, unknowing of what to do with the pain he held within his chest. They’d been taught how to repress them from day one, but he felt ripped clean. Like he’d lost all of his training all at once.

Geralt meditated for a long time. Jaskier’s lute felt like it was the only thing keeping him upon the earth, the instrument heavy in his lap. He had yet to let go of it, his fingers brushing the familiar strings but softly as not to disturb them. They weren’t his to touch, but he could not help but hold it close anyway.

In his silence, Geralt wondered where the lute had taken Jaskier in the near seven months that they were apart. He wondered…what joy Jaskier had felt. What joy, when he was not there to hold him back.

_Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?_

Geralt winced at his words. He had for a long time. Jaskier hadn’t deserved that—hadn’t deserved any of it, but he was the only thing that remained for him to lash out at. The only good thing after violet eyes tore up his heart, but that had been Geralt’s fault too. Without thinking, he had trapped Yennefer to him—the very thing she had been running from her entire life.

_Well, that’s not fair._

Geralt took a steady breath, his fingers retreating from the strings for good. In the deepest part of his heart, he feared that this would be the last time he felt Jaskier’s presence.

For Jaskier to be without his lute…what had happened? Had he given the lute to Priscilla? For what time—reason? Where was he?

“If you keep staring at the lute, it’s going to combust. I think Jaskier might actually kill you then.”

Geralt blinked, his golden eyes burning. Triss hummed. Whatever useless meditation he was doing was over, the witcher glancing up at Triss from his perch on her windowsill. His hands were clenched by his sides, the lute balancing precariously upon his lap.

Triss was apparently done with her healing spell, the mage looking ready to faint. Priscilla lay in her bed comfortably now, a natural flush upon her cheeks. She was merely asleep. In the hours of healing, Geralt had noticed another terrifying feat: the torn doublet that Priscilla had been wearing. The garment now sat on a side table next to where she lay sleeping, but the brilliant green had imbedded itself in Geralt’s minds-eye. Yet another scrap of Jaskier, as if fate were taunting him.

Geralt rose from his spot with a sigh, wincing at the stiffness of his legs. He then very carefully set the lute against the wall, still reluctant to let it go. Sparing one last look at it he walked over and gripped Triss lightly by her elbow, supporting her in a small way. She smiled at him warmly, leaning into his comfort. He led her to where he had been sitting, grabbing a quick throw to wrap around her trembling shoulders.

“You need to rest,” Geralt told her simply, his voice rougher than normal—like a landside down the mountain. Triss hummed again, very much in _his_ way and the witcher repressed a small smile.

“So do you,” the mage told him and reached up to card a few fingers through his mussed up hair. Geralt blinked at her, at the tenderness. She sighed, pulling her hand back and sparing a look at Priscilla.

“She won’t wake for a few hours. I packed as much comfort and warmth, both literal and physical, into her dreams. She’s…been through a lot, Geralt.”

Geralt gulped thickly, the witcher sliding down the windowsill to sit between the small floorspace between Jaskier’s lute and her tucked legs. He felt somehow safe between the two of them: a mage that he considered over the years a dear friend, and the instrument of a man he tore apart. He looked at Priscilla too, wrapping his hands around one bent knee, pressing his chin upon it.

“Jaskier…he,” Geralt began and stopped, his baritone the only sound in the room besides their breathing. Geralt tried again: “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Geralt closed his eyes when he felt one of Triss’ hands grip his shoulder, her blunt nails biting. He let himself have a simple privilege and leaned his temple against her knee, her satin dress crinkling. He could feel her freeze before relaxing, the mage not daring to move her hand from his shoulder, despite the tenderness Geralt showed her. The witcher was showing as much vulnerability as he could without breaking.

“Geralt, I…You have to know. I gave Jaskier multiple amulets. When I found Priscilla, there was a…dull connection that was maybe a mile away from where we found her.”

Geralt froze then, his heart feeling like it would burst. “You _mean_ …” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, even think too hard on it.

_Was Jaskier dead?_

The thought was overwhelming—impossible, even. But…

“I-I really don’t know,” Triss told him honestly, a desperate wobble in her voice that Geralt tried to block out. He could _hear_ the tears well in her eyes and the moment she went and wiped them dry onehandedly.

Jaskier’s lute felt like the largest thing in the room then, a reminder of the one person that they were missing. The one person that Geralt would give anything to see again—to apologize to. The one person who he’d truly…let in. Twenty years of friendship, _twenty years_ of watching the man grow into one of the strongest people Geralt had ever known; and he had known many.

Jaskier was…He was… _Sunlight._ He was the one thing that destiny had blessed Geralt with and he tore Jaskier apart. Now, it felt like destiny was laughing at him. Geralt had fought so hard against it that he hadn’t seen the one good thing in his life that made his shitty existence worth something. Worth something more than blood, scars, monsters and the hatred-filled cold hearts of men.

And it took Geralt twenty years to see that. To see that _after_ Jaskier had left the witcher to face his fucked up destiny alone, when he really hadn’t needed to…

If he could have been anything but a _mutant._

“Don’t do that,” Triss said sadly, finally giving up trying to remain just a steady rock. She carded her hand through his hair tenderly, Geralt slightly trembling.

“Don’t do that to yourself. Yes, Jaskier is mad as hell at you, but he will forgive you…eventually. His heart is too big for anything else. Deep breaths, my friend. Focus on what we have before us: Priscilla, safe and whole. She will tell us more soon.”

 _Is._ The witcher could have kissed her. Even if he knew that if Jaskier forgave him, his heart was literally too generous for his own good. Instead, he nodded his head rapidly, trying hard to squash down the hatred and misery that he had faced for over a hundred years. He stared at Priscilla again, his golden eyes dark with so much emotion that Triss wanted to _hug_ him.

Triss had known him for nearly fifty years. She had seen his heartbreak more times than she wanted, but this frightened her. The darkness in his eyes cut out the human side that Jaskier had sung and teased out of Geralt. He was soft _because_ of Jaskier. He was _human_ because of Jaskier, and Ciri needed that side of him as much as he did.

“Steady on, Geralt,” The mage told him, bending down to press a warm kiss against the white crown of his head, the witcher the most vulnerable she ever hoped to see again. She did not mind the tenderness, in fact she was happy to be able to do this for someone so strong, but she wished it had happened at a happier time. She wished that he had come to her simply to be in her presence and not needing her to be stronger than a _witcher._ Stronger than…Geralt of Rivia.

* * *

Priscilla dreamed of a simpler time. She dreamed of performing in the heat of summer, far away from the cold that nearly took her life. In her dream, Jaskier was there. Jaskier was in most of her fondest memories, this one no different. In this one, he was smiling at her as she spun in a dress the color of the sun, his laugh like the warm waters of the North Sea. His lute was upon his lap and flowers were pressed in his hair, his blue eyes twinkling at her with so much joy that she truly felt like the Sun before him. She remembered his quick song:

_A drop in the ocean, in the sea,_

_Darling dove, say you’ll stay with me,_

_To sing forever, hand-in-hand,_

_I shan’t feel lost upon the land—_

Priscilla had known Jaskier before he was that: _Jaskier._ Julian Alfred Pankratz was a sad person, “Jaskier” was not. She’d met Julian when she was sixteen and he seventeen, the young noble on his own, playing in the streets of Posada. She was there when Julian changed from the penniless noble to the happy, penniless, bard “Jaskier.”

She was also there to see the change that the witcher had brought to Jaskier when her friend had met him. It was destiny that lit the fire behind his eyes and turned the soft sea into a raging ocean. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it saddened Priscilla all the same. It was the change that made her realize that they were growing up and that the world was getting to be a scarier place.

Yes, they could and would play and sing to their heart’s content, but there were people out there that wanted nothing more than to tear them apart. To rip their joy and talent to shreds. For Jaskier, this person was Valdo Marx.

Priscilla had watched the troubadour charm his way into Jaskier’s life and then back right out again when he got what he wanted: Jaskier’s talent. Unfortunately, Valdo took Jaskier’s heart along with him.

It was always this way with Jaskier. Priscilla wanted to protect his too tender heart, but he gave it so freely. Every time, he gave everything he had in a love that would burn out faster than it had begun. Jaskier loved people…humanity. It was Valdo. It was de Stael. It was…anyone who showed him tenderness, any false love—false vulnerability. So, it quite frankly wasn’t much of a shock that he came to love a witcher too, even one as rumored to be as cruel as Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken.

Priscilla had never met him. She pictured him as mentioned in Jaskier’s songs—his _muse_. The stories of the Butcher of Blaviken and Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen, were two very separate people. She had grown up fearing witchers, Geralt’s story being one that was hissed at her every time a witcher would pass through her small town. It was every excuse when witchers were chased out, murdered in broad daylight even.

_Beware of the mutants that walk in the skin of corrupted humanity. They feel nothing, no emotion but the bloodlust of a hundred men. No soul, no mortality or morality. If able, kill them before they kill you._

Priscilla had heard that all her life. Then…Jaskier attached himself to the worst one. He clung to a monster with his too blue eyes and a tinge of pink to his cheeks that she had desperately wanted to be the one to put there. She was afraid of the Butcher, but Jaskier painted the image of the White Wolf not only in her minds-eye, but in other peoples’ too.

Geralt of Rivia was a witcher, yes, but he was there to help people. The only white-haired witcher on the continent…was a beacon of hope. His brothers too, the other wolves of Kaer Morhen were just as righteous.

Eskel, the eldest, was strong and true. His talent with magic caused him to be a wonder to the mages of the Continent and to the remaining witchers. Jaskier had described the heavy scarring across one side of his face with tenderness in his voice, his blue eyes shining with a sadness that had Priscilla loving the scarred witcher without having met him. He was a knight in Jaskier’s eyes, just like Geralt, but one that had had his heart torn from him more than once and had learned to leave his heart out of the picture. In a way, Eskel reminded Priscilla of Jaskier.

Lambert, the youngest wolf, was just like his namesake. However, he was true to his word and fought for what he felt was right, witcher code or not. Lambert had been in many fights in the wars of men and had grown to have a hardened shell too, not knowing when to walk away. He was the most wide-eyed of them and had a temper to bring down the lives of men.

Jaskier loved them all, but none like Geralt. Priscilla knew that if it went bad, it would be just that: bad and impossible to pick up the pieces of Jaskier’s heart. Then, it happened. It happened and she had seen the hollowness in her friend’s eyes—a hole where his heart once was. She did what she had done in the past and take him in her arms and try and shield him from the terrors of the world, but this was different. It was darker this time, the witchers pulling Jaskier’s fate with their own, and Priscilla was terrified.

Geralt wasn’t a knight. He wasn’t the witcher that Jaskier believed him to be. He truly was the Butcher of Blaviken, and she hated him.

_I want you to get out of here. I’ll lead them away into the woods. Priscilla, I am so sorry!_

No, no, no, _no._

_Take care of my lute, yeah? Now go!_

Priscilla woke with a cry, screaming Jaskier’s name. She sobbed miserably, nearly jumping from her skin when a pair of arms held her. “No, no, no, _no_ …!” She was so scared that she started to panic, intaking more air than her lungs could handle.

“Priscilla— _Priscilla_! You’re safe, you’re safe!” A warm voice whispered to her and equally tender hands rubbed her arms and back.

“T-Triss Merigold?” Priscilla whimpered miserably, her hands wringing themselves in the deep red satin of the woman’s gown. Watery brown eyes nodded at her and Priscilla let out a mangled laugh and cry combination, allowing a complete stranger to rock her back and forth in their arms.

“What happened?” Triss asked her softly, her eyes falling upon a very frozen Geralt of Rivia. He stood at the foot of the bed, a wide-eyed Ciri clinging to him. She had just brought them dinner, the food a mess upon the carpet now when the blonde woman had woke up screaming bloody murder.

“Where is Jaskier?” The question rang out in the room, in the whole of the castle itself.

Though, it wasn’t Triss who asked. It was Geralt. Geralt who watched Priscilla freeze in Triss’ arms more than she had been before and who very timidly pulled away to set eyes upon the being she had feared for a very long time: The Butcher of Blaviken.

The amount of disgust and rage in her blue, teary, eyes had Geralt reeling backward, Ciri half catching him. They looked like Jaskier’s. They matched his perfectly…and the words that she told him next Geralt knew would haunt him for the rest of his life; however long that may be:

“ _You_ …! _You’re_ the reason he was captured! _You’re_ the reason that _my friend_ —” She broke off with a hiss, wrenching away from a very much shell-shocked Triss to crowd against the headboard in a panic. She looked at Geralt with so much hatred that Geralt felt as if he were being judged for all the wrong that he had done in his very long life. Ciri called out to him, but her cries were on lost ears, the witcher only being in the presence of Jaskier’s best friend.

“ _You’re_ the reason Jaskier got hurt! I wish he had never met you!”

Geralt felt the earth open up and swallow him then. He was numbly aware of Ciri still calling his name as he left the room in a hurry, truly feeling like the frightened little kid a hundred years ago—terrified of the castle and the world outside of it too.

“Geralt!” Multiple voices called out to him, but Geralt couldn’t stop—wouldn’t. He needed to get out of the castle, clear his head. He was in the courtyard before Eskel stopped him—a literal wall of muscle. Geralt blinked as he found himself pressed in his brother’s embrace, Eskel humming at him slightly.

“You haven’t breathed in five minutes. Geralt, _breathe_.” Eskel demanded and Geralt did, but still felt like he would choke. He rigidly pressed his closed fists on Eskel’s back, misery clutching him tight.

“ _Fuck_ emotions,” Geralt growled into Eskel’s gambeson, unknowing of what to do with the pain he held within his chest. They’d been taught how to repress them from day one, but he felt ripped clean. Like he’d lost all of his training all at once. Ciri burst from one of the side doors then, hair ruffled and nose bright red. She was openly weeping when she wrapped her arms around both witchers.

Lambert watched them from a crumbling gargoyle fifty feet above, perched on it with dark golden eyes. The sun was setting and he huffed, wiping roughly at his nose with one arm. “Fuck this day.”

* * *

Jaskier was sweating, water droplets dripping from his stress-wet hair. The bard’s lips trembled in pain and his arms were tied behind the chair. Cahir held a red-hot poker in his hand, the molten tip a mere half-inch from Jaskier’s bare torso, the bard twitching away from it helplessly. The general’s lips were in a thin line, his eyes dark with his task:

_Any information is vital. His song first, The White Flame demands it._

Very well.

“Tell me of her, Jaskier. This can stop now.”

Jaskier half wept, but smiled wide—his teeth showing. He looked half-crazed. “You can fuck right off. I will take my memories to the grave if it means to protect her from yo _u_ — _AH_!”

Cahir drug the poker down his torso, sighing deeply. Jaskier refused to cry out, biting his tongue so hard that he tasted blood. The general watched him closely, the other man an enigma.

Jaskier was…covered in scars. The man whom the White Flame mentioned was not this man. Or, he was not all that his finery displayed. The man before him knew pain, and his body showed what his profession did not. Cahir was shocked by them, truly. However, traveling with a witcher surely meant a rough life…but these were more than that. Jaskier had been tortured before, the marks long scars on his back and legs.

“You weren’t kidding minding a few more scars…were you, Jaskier?”

A line of fire trailed down Jaskier’s torso, from clavicle to navel, the sound of burning flesh dizzying in the dark of the night. Jaskier whipped his head back in a choked-off cry. He grit his teeth, nearly sobbing out loud when the poker left his poor skin to return to the raging fire next to them. The bard trembled, his chin near pressed against his chest, eyes tightly closed as he breathed deeply—controlled.

Cahir gripped his chin and forced him to meet his eyes, Jaskier’s lit with pure fire.

He wasn’t easily broken.

Cahir smiled, almost kindly, and gently shook Jaskier’s chin with his pointer and thumb. “I’m going to enjoy you,” he half-whispered to himself, his blue eyes all but pitch in the glow of the fire.

Jaskier felt tears well in his eyes, but he forced himself to not weep in front of such a horrid creature, unwilling to give Nilfgaard anything more than his own blood and tears.

Hours later, Cahir left his tent in an angry huff.

He’d learned shit-all. In the end, Jaskier had lost too much blood to continue. Too, he was unconscious by the end, a…rather disturbing smile upon his bloody mouth.

Cahir walked through the Nilfgaardian encampment with a dark mind and troubled heart. His men watched him with respect in their eyes and Cahir kept his head high. They trusted him to do what they could not and saw his strengths. He was meant to be flawless. He was born for greatness—otherness.

Cahir would find Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.

He…had no choice. If he did not, his ancestral name would be marked from history. Cahir himself would be burnt to ash by the White Flame. The general reached the edge of the camp, staring up at the brilliance of the stars.

It was cold and his breath clouded around him. He sighed and closed his eyes, chin raised high.

“You went too far.”

Cahir sighed and looked to his left, Fringilla staring up at the stars with him. Her blue robes gleamed near silver in the flames of the torches. Her lips were pressed in a thin line.

“He’ll be fine,” Cahir told her, his truth coming from the fire he saw in Jaskier’s eyes.

“Fine enough to require my help,” The mage hissed at him. “The White Flame wants him whole, Cahir. I don’t want a repeat of the Inn.”

“Then keep him _whole_ ,” Cahir half growled back. “You were the one that told me to…dig for it.”

Fringilla concealed a wince, recalling how she had found the bard whimpering on his side not fifteen minutes before. The blood had called to her, the mage quickly healing their captive so infection wouldn’t set in. The wounds were excessive…meant to scar—they could still.

“I know you’re…anxious,” Fringilla began, soft. Cahir looked away. “Destiny is not so fickle. We are on the side of greatness and it is destined—”

“Destiny can fuck _right off_ —” Cahir half choked on his tongue to stop the venom-laced words.

“It doesn’t work that way. You know it. If you try and fight it…it will bite back.”

“Maybe I can bite harder.” Cahir smiled at her then, eyes misty. Fringilla gave him an exasperated look and reached out to grip his armored shoulder.

“I pray that you do. Just…tread lightly. The White Flame wants the information, yes…but maybe there can be an easier way.”

Cahir clenched his jaw. “Pain is my way, but I think you may be right. This bard…he takes pain as well as any soldier.”

“Jaskier?” Fringilla asked, exasperated. “He is a fool.”

“A fool…yes,” Cahir mumbled, once again staring up at the dark sky. “But a brave one.”

“A fool is a fool. Speaking of, I found her.”

Cahir looked at her then. “Yennefer?”

“The very same.”

Cahir hummed then, amused. “Maybe I don’t need to bite so hard…yet.”

“You and I are very much alike, Cahir. Pain…it is our muse. I’ll come to your tent in the morning and we can get more from Jaskier. This time with truth serum.”

“Get more? I got shit from him. I want him to spill his very soul in payment.”

Fringilla smiled. “Done.”


End file.
